


In the Sight of the Gods

by Artemis_Egeria



Category: BUJOLD Lois McMaster - Works, Chalion Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 03:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14741475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Egeria/pseuds/Artemis_Egeria
Summary: A collection of ficlets and one-shots for The Curse of Chalion. Also posted on FF.net.





	1. Inheritance

Cazaril thought that inheritance was a fickle thing.

He had inherited a title from his family, but not their lands. He had inherited ropes of scars from his time in the Roknari galleys, but not his slave masters’ cruelty. He had inherited cynicism from his observations of court intrigues, but not the courtiers’ venality. 

He hoped he would one day be able to leave his children something both lasting and good. He snorted at that fantasy. Dondo and the death demon would finish him off long before he would be able to reproduce with Be- with any lady. 

He supposed that best he could hope for was to do no harm. Or rather not let Dondo do any harm through him. He looked again toward his chamber’s window, imagined the of the wind whipping past him as he fell… No, that way is closed. The Lady must have some use for me yet because she has not released me. 

Inheritance was also overrated.

No amount of gold or good luck or influence would save him from his fate.


	2. Inference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iselle learns something more important than Darthacan grammar.

“If we have to go over the fourth Darthacan declension one more time, I’m going to strangle him.”

“At least the Darthacan doesn’t make it feel like you have a dozen small rocks in your mouth like Roknari does.” Betriz moved her mouth exaggeratedly and spoke one of the very rude words that Cazaril had taught them as a reward for expanding their Roknari vocabulary. Iselle laughed and agreed. They continued reading and quizzing each other for a short space of time.

They finally felt that they were completely familiar with all the forms. Betriz was running through them all under her breath once more, and Iselle regarded her curiously. When she noticed the look, Betriz looked up. “Do I have something on my face, Iselle?”

“No, I just realized something, and I feel a fool for not having seen it before.”

“What?”

“I know why you’re always a little more eager to review our lessons than I am.”

“I’m hardly eager to study Darthacan grammar in the evenings.”

Iselle grinned in triumph, though Betriz couldn’t fathom why. “You’re getting defensive. I didn’t say you were; I just said you were a little more diligent than I.”

Even knowing her question was dangerous, she asked, “And what do you think you’ve discovered about that?”

“You want to impress Cazaril.”

Her first thought was to exclaim that the notion was ridiculous, but she knew that would only make Iselle more convinced. She said calmly, “I only study to ensure that I can serve you well lest you get married off to some Darthacan lord.” She wouldn’t even entertain the thought of the royesse being sent off to a Roknari princeling. 

“That was a good answer, but I don’t believe you.”

“You may believe whatever you wish. It’s still the truth.”

Iselle dropped the subject. But she had a new area of study that was far more interesting than geography or foreign languages. She began to observe Betriz and Cazaril closely when they were together. She noticed that Betriz had a special smile just for Cazaril; it was smaller than her usual grin. And she saw Cazaril watch her surreptitiously when he thought no one was looking. She rarely saw them alone together, aside from brief conversations in corridors, but they always seemed to pay more attention to each other in group settings than was strictly necessary.

She knew that there was the potential for them to have much more than mere flirtation. She only hoped that she would have that one day.


	3. Injunctions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cazaril ponders what to do next after the bathhouse incident at the beginning of The Curse of Chalion.

Cazaril was still reeling.

The fear on the boy’s face and the bathhouse keeper’s sputtering brought back all the shame from the galleys that he had tried to suppress. He should have been more careful, should have remembered.

As he stumbled through the town, he was reminded of the three rules that a man, especially a soldier, had to follow.

“Guard your honor,” his commander had told him.

He supposed he’d done a fair job of that. He’d been loyal and brave. It hadn’t gotten him anywhere, but that wasn’t the point. He could have done any number of things differently and he might be rich and powerful. But he’d done the noble, or stupid, thing, depending on your point of view.

The second rule was even more important: “Let your reputation fall where it will.”

He was a doing a pretty good job of that so far. He chuckled bitterly; it was a dry, racking sound that came out more as a cough. He had a moment of doubt about returning to Valenda. He had no idea what people would think of him. Would they think he was dead, or a deserter? He already had one man believing he was some sort of sexual deviant; he didn’t need anyone to think worse of him than that.

The final admonition was perhaps the most difficult: “And outlive the bastards.”

He had managed to survive thus far, but he imagined that his enemies were far better off than he. They certainly did not have to face bouts of weeping, one of which he could feel stealing upon him. Wonderful, I can add madness to perversion and desertion. He tried to quell such despairing thoughts. The worst that could happen was that his old mistress would turn him away. He would be no worse off than he was now. 

The only thing to do was to go to the washerwoman’s place, gather his clothes, and head off to see what awaited him at the Provincara’s.


	4. Inhale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iselle and Bergon on their wedding night; only minor innuendo.

It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

She could still hear the muted singing from outside, but it seemed to grow fainter as her heart beat faster. She turned to Bergon. He was smiling nervously and fingering the edge of the quilt on the bed.

“I-” The word escaped her in an involuntary exhalation. He looked at her, but she didn’t know what to say. She had always known she would marry, and she’d resigned herself to the idea of not being familiar with her husband by her wedding night. But, now that the night was here, she didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t only the bodice of her dress that was choking off her air supply.

For a moment, she wanted to flee to her temporary room that she had shared with Betriz and Nan, or to go to her mother. For all her bold talk of making her own luck through this marriage and alliance and of saving Chalion, she felt lost. But the moment of panic passed. 

“I’m sorry this is awkward.”

She was grateful to him for putting it plainly. “It’s all right. I think that’s inevitable.” With that mutual admission it was suddenly easier for her to breathe; the air seemed less dense. She found that they had moved closer together.

Bergon took her hand and settled his free one on her cheek. He paused and his eyes sought her permission. She nodded and he kissed her. His mouth on hers made her heart speed up in a far more pleasant way than it had before.

Paradoxically, as her pulse began to race, she relaxed further. They were equals here. Bergon’s kiss was almost tentative. He pulled away slowly and brought her hand up to his lips. Neither made a move for several moments, and time seemed to expand again. Each breath filled an eternity, but the atmosphere was no longer oppressive. 

They were acclimating themselves to the idea of being adults. True, in terms of experience, they had probably already lived fuller lives than most gray-haired elders, but they were still young in years. This act would erase the final marker of their childhoods.

Iselle realized that staring at Bergon was probably not reassuring him, so she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him down with her. Looking into his sweet face, she thought that they could do this. Neither of them was truly ready for this step, but they would help each other. 

Then, together they entered the unknown.


	5. Indication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betriz has a disturbing dream.

Betriz found herself in the temple. She walked toward a small group of people who were clustered at the front. She noticed Nan and Iselle, whose bright hair hid her face as she looked at the ground. Dy Sanda was there, which was odd because he was dead. Several minor nobles stood by idly. Teidez was notable in his absence.

There was one other who should have been among this group but was not. She wondered where Caz was.

She moved forward so she could see what was at the center of the group. She gasped when she saw the dedicats of all the gods with their familiars. It was a funeral then. Her eyes traveled to the coffin; it was very plain, but obviously of good quality wood. She peered in to see the unfortunate soul who had so few mourners.

Cazaril.

She bit back a sob. It wasn’t fair. There was so much that she needed to tell him. She wanted to apologize for the way she reacted to his kiss. She was just surprised and startled by the scratch of his beard. Of course, he probably never would have wanted to kiss her again, given the way she giggled like a fool. And it was too late, too late.

He was frowning, and the expression emphasized the lines on his face, which was very gray in death.

And she could do nothing about it. 

Eventually, she heard Iselle’s voice, but it didn’t seem to be coming from her; it permeated the walls and surrounded her.

She sat bolt upright. “Betriz, you’re awake. Bad dream?”

She was in her chamber, on her bed. “Yes, I’m fine now, though.”

“You don’t look fine.” And she certainly didn’t feel fine; the dream hung about her like a mist of unease. “I was just coming to talk with you like I did in the old days when I heard you muttering, ‘Caz, Caz…’”

Betriz felt her face heat. “Oh. Do you know where he is, actually?”

She shrugged. “In bed, I presume. The last I saw him was when he said good night to us and Nan about an hour ago.”

“Did he look ill to you? I think he’s been getting worse.”

“Mm. I haven’t noticed much change in the past few weeks. What’s wrong?”

“I think my dream may have been some sort of premonition. We were attending Caz’s funeral.”

Iselle eyed her skeptically. “You’ve never put this much stock in dreams before.”

“This feels different. I think we should send for a physician.”

“Cazaril will never agree to that.” Iselle had a point, but she wasn’t in the mood to listen.

“Then we simply won’t tell him.”

“He won’t be happy.”

“Better upset than dead. We need him.” She was aware of the plaintive note in her voice, but she didn’t care what sort of ribbing would come from it.

“I completely agree with you. I’m just not sure if this is the best method.”

“Well, what else do you have in mind?” She realized how desperate she sounded. “I’m sorry, Iselle. I didn’t mean to snap at you. The dream just has me upset.” She never wanted to feel as helpless as she did staring down at Cazaril’s cold face.

“Perhaps you’re right. I won’t deny that he has looked unwell recently. Actually, there’s a physician at the local Temple Hospital who specializes in wasting illnesses.” Betriz raised an eyebrow. “What? You’re not the only one who cares about Caz’s welfare.”

She forced herself to smile weakly. “How angry do you think he’ll be?” She tried to leave her grim thoughts behind.

Iselle grinned back. “I don’t think he’ll be angry. Exasperated, perhaps a bit surprised, but not angry. And I don’t think he’d be upset at all if he knew you sent the physician.”

She valiantly tried to suppress the blush that was rising up her neck. “Why would you say that?”

“I have eyes. He’s wanted you for at least as long as you’ve wanted him. I’ve told you all this before.” The battle against the red staining her cheeks was useless now. She unwillingly thought of Cazaril’s kiss, the desperation in his eyes; it was one of the few secrets that she had not shared with Iselle in the years that she’d known her. Most of the details of that night were growing fuzzier as the days passed, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that Cazaril had something to do with Dondo’s death.

“Betriz.” The sound of her name jolted her from her musings. “You don’t have anything to say to that?”

“No, I think you’re imagining things again. Cazaril’s our good friend and advisor. I may have been attracted to him in passing a few months ago, but I no longer feel that way.” Even before she finished speaking, she knew she was uttering the grossest of lies. But Iselle surrendered for the time being.

They finalized plans to send a courier for the physician in the morning. Iselle left her, demanding that she go to her if she had another bad dream and murmuring something about denial.

As she tried to fall asleep again, Betriz realized that her earlier words to Iselle had not been total lies. She was no longer attracted to Caz. Well, she was, but, really, she loved him. The rational part of herself told her that it was only the residual fear from the dream that was tricking her. But she knew in the depths of her heart that that was only more denial. 

She loved him. She wasn’t going to tell him any time soon, and she wasn’t at all confident that he felt the same. However, the knowledge was enough. If there were any aid she could offer him, she was going to fight as hard as possible to give it to him, not sit around and mourn a lost love as women were expected to do.

Caz would not have a funeral any time soon on her watch.


	6. Injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cazaril adjusts to life as a slave; contains violence.

He doesn’t even know what he’s done wrong. Perhaps it’s just a whim of his oar-master. He whips him five or seven times, not enough to make him pass out but enough to render every motion miserable. He doesn’t strike deep, but Cazaril definitely feels the wounds keenly with every stroke of his oar.

Cazaril has thought that he knew misery from Gotorget. Before now he thought his skin was leathery and his tolerance for hunger and pain was much higher than that of the average man. But that was nothing compared to this.

The salt from his sweat mixes with the blood that he can feel congealing on his back, which was already red and blistering from constant sun exposure. It burns his open wounds. Of course, he knows there will be no physician to aid him; even Gotorget had physician, at least for the first few months of the siege.

He cannot stop, even for a moment. Any show of weakness will only lead to more lashings. The sole rule is that the slaves be able to paddle; the Roknari have no cares about how much agony they live through.

On the march from Gotorget to the Roknari galleys, Cazaril had not allowed himself to think of what his life as a slave would be. The guards had treated all the Chalionese soldiers rather humanely during the journey. There was adequate food and water, rest stops during the day, a decent amount of time for sleep. He has supposed since his time on the ship that their masters wanted them as strong as possible before the real hardships began.

Slowly the sting of his lacerations blends with the ache of his muscles. He considers the contrasting tones of the pain. It’s almost artistic, really. They work in harmony; as the ache subsides, the sting crescendos and vice versa. His thoughts continue dreamily in that direction, but he wrenches his mind from the admiring contemplation of his suffering.

He refuses to be broken within a week of his new life. The Roknari may savage his body, may breed more pain than he ever imagined was possible, may scar him for life. But they will not drive him mad. He has no earthly idea how long he will be a slave here, but he makes a solemn vow before the five gods to whom he had prayed so desperately on that night that he will keep body and soul together.


	7. Iniquity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dondo reacts to the Lady Pig incident.

“Damn her to the Bastard’s hell; damn all of them to the Bastard’s hell!”

“Calm yourself, brother.” Martou dy Jironal rubbed his temples. 

“I will not. I have been humiliated.”

“You were…imprudent. It won’t do for either of us to have the royesse against us because of your treatment of her handmaiden. We have other concerns than court intrigues.”

“I don’t need another lecture about propriety, brother,” Dondo muttered savagely. Martou thought he could use just such a lecture, but his disappointed assignation with the Lady Betriz had him riled enough. “I’ll have my revenge on that little bitch with or without your help.”

“The story will be forgotten in a few days. I thought you had thicker skin.”

“My skin is not the problem. She was being coy and alluring to bait me.” Martou had seen none of this, but he let the matter go for the time being. “By the way, I want Cazaril’s stuffed head for a trophy to add to my wall.”

“One revenge at a time, perhaps?”

“They’re all tied together. He already has the royesse and her handmaid poisoned against me. The way they hang off him is disgusting.” Martou was disturbed by the manic glee that suddenly came into his brother’s eyes. “But, you know, the servant whelps do whisper among themselves.”

He was growing steadily more impatient. He had many more important plans than his brother’s wounded pride, and the tractability of Royesse Iselle was essential to them. He didn’t much care whether Dondo made himself silly with liquor every night or how many maidens he enjoyed, but he had the good of the whole realm and dy Jironal line to occupy his thoughts. “What of it?”

“A boy saw the marks on his back. There is really only one plausible conclusion to draw…”

“We both know very well whence those scars come.” He would do almost anything to protect the reputation of his family, but Martou still occasionally felt pangs of guilt about his betrayal of Cazaril after Gotorget. He had no wish to follow Dondo’s reasoning or become more enmeshed in his vendetta. 

“Do we? I’m not certain. After all, I couldn’t forgive myself if any harm that could have been prevented befell our dear royesse and her friend.” There was a decidedly feral element in his brother’s grin that Martou had always tried to ignore in the past.

“You’ll go through with this no matter what I say, won’t you?” Dondo’s widening smirk was all the answer he needed. “As you wish. I’ll contact dy Maroc; he owes me a favor.” He was tempted to say that he would not help his brother after this, but he knew that would be a lie.

Dondo took leave of him with a slight bow, beaming and humming all the way.


	8. Indisputable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betriz on her wedding day.

“Betriz, stand still. You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”

“I have to move around, Iselle. Are you sure we can’t take a quick ride?”

Iselle laughed. “You’re getting married in less than two hours. Besides, you’d ruin your lovely hair.” The hairdresser had been in earlier to sculpt her hair into the same ornate coif that she had worn for Bergon’s investiture as the general of the Son’s Order and that Caz had seemed to admire. Betriz fiddled with her fingers and sighed. “Relax. We used to rehearse this day all the time.”

“That was years ago! Fantasizing about you’re wedding day as a girl is very different from living the actual day.” She tried to resume her pacing, but Iselle gently held her in place with a hand on one of her shoulders as she reached for one of her underskirts with the other. 

“Everything will be fine. Besides if we don’t get you dressed soon, Nan will come in here and give you the speech about wives and wedding nights that she gave me when I got married.” 

“Don’t frighten me with an idea like that. That speech would certainly convince me never to consent to that holy rite.” She stepped into another layer of undergarments. “But don’t you lecture me about being nervous. I thought you were going to faint dead away on your wedding morning.”

“At least I had valid excuses. I barely knew my future husband and was possibly committing treason.” Betriz had to concede that there had been more risk in Iselle’s wedding than her and Caz’s. She chided herself once again on her baseless uncertainty.

She was glad that Iselle had banished all the waiting women from the room after that, insisting on dressing the bride herself. She hated the idea of her temporary ambivalence reaching Caz’s ears through servants’ gossip. 

Her thoughts returned to him with a vengeance. Doubts that had been battering the edges of her mind came to the forefront. Did she really know him? She felt like she did. But there was always some barrier between them, his role as her tutor or the presence of others or his fear that he would not live long enough to properly honor their attachment. Even after their betrothal they only had snatched moments together. One or the other of them was always busy consolidating support for Iselle and Bergon’s reign or cleaning up the messes left over from the curse. What if they didn’t get along as well as she thought they did?

However, she remembered all the time that they’d shared together. 

Her mind wandered back to the first time she’d seen him at dinner the first day he arrived in Valenda, and the next morning when she brought him clothes for the Daughter’s Day celebration. She had wondered who that strange gaunt man was, beyond a former page for whom the Provincara obviously retained some affection. He looked like he needed kindness and someone to keep him from his memories. She never imagined that she would be the one to do it, or create memories to replace them with hope.

Then, he was her tutor, a charming and effective tutor, but still just a tutor. She couldn’t remember exactly what the first conversation was that caused her to think of him as something more. Whatever it was led to ever more detailed exchanges. When they moved to the Zangre, there wasn’t as much time for such dialogues, but they occasionally had time to speak privately. 

Iselle was still working on dressing her while she mused. She was barely conscious of raising her arms for various garments to be slipped on over her head. Now it was time to step into her gown. 

Iselle began tightening the laces on Betriz’s corset. It really was a lovely dress, done in the colors of the Daughter and similar to Iselle’s wedding gown. It all had started with the Daughter’s Day, but it was the Son’s season that was the most significant. She still remembered the uneasiness she’d noticed in Cazaril from the first day they received the summons to the Zangre, when she and Iselle had both thought it a grand adventure. He had been right, of course. 

Such thoughts had no place on her wedding day, but her mind was drawn unbidden to the sensation of Dondo dy Jironal’s eyes on her, as if they would sear her to her very skin. She quickly pushed aside the remembrance of Cazaril’s look of horror after the incident with the pig that was the source of so much trouble. Then, all the recent events of Caz’s sickness and his mission and the reordering of Chalion-Ibra played through her head.

The most recent memories had the most power over her, both for their content and proximity. She had known at some level, ever since the breathless night ride from Valenda, that her and Iselle’s lives were at stake, but it was Caz’s safety that most concerned her. She wanted to know that his uncanny tumor hadn’t endangered him or that he hadn’t met some accident on the road. Her thoughts confirmed more than ever that her feelings were not mere infatuation.

She would not fear any longer. Love for him coursed through her with an acute familiarity. She was well suited for him and he for her. In the few months of their engagement, she had never doubted that he would be a good husband to her; it was only in the last few days that she convinced herself that all she felt for him could not endure once the first flame of wedded bliss passed. 

She’d never seen any evidence of men or, particularly, women who remained happy in marriage. Her father had told her stories of his and her mother’s happiness, but she had passed on to the Mother of all before they had the opportunity to make that happiness lasting. Lady Ista and Royina Sara showed the greater disasters that could be the results of unhappy unions. 

But surely she and Cazaril could be the exception to the rule. 

She didn’t have much knowledge of men and their dealings with women beyond the occasional pretty court flirtation, but she couldn’t imagine anyone else stirring the deepest part of her the way Caz did. No one else shared her humor or history. She took a deep breath and stilled entirely. She was going to be Caz’s wife, and it felt right.

As Iselle was fastening a simple silver chain around her neck, she commented, “I see that you’ve come to your senses.” Betriz only smiled a little more widely. 

She left the room ahead of Iselle. After all, her man would be waiting.


	9. Interludes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betriz and Cazaril struggle to find some alone time.

“Good morning, Chancellor dy Cazaril.” He felt a grin spread unbidden across his face. Not that he needed much inducement to grin when she smiled at him like that.

“Lady Betriz.” He took each of her hands in his and kissed them in the customary greeting. Her slightly indrawn breath made him raise his head to look her in the eye. Her cheeks were flushed a shade or two darker than her usual skin tone, and she was smiling a bit dazedly. It thrilled him more than he would ever admit to know that he could have such an effect on her through such a small action.

“I’m glad I caught up with you.” 

“Why is that?”

She took a step closer, and he wished that they were someplace private rather than a corridor leading to the dining hall. “Well, one, I didn’t see you yesterday. And, two, I have something to tell you.”

“What is that?”

“Iselle and I made a little wager, and if I’m to win, I need your help.” The curve of her lips turned impish.

“Ah. What boon will I receive for helping you?”

“My eternal gratitude.”

“I may need more of an incentive than that. I don’t even know what the bet involves.”

“It’s nothing really; it will only cost you a few minutes of discomfort.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. What happens if I don’t agree?” He didn’t fear that she would ask him to do something too onerous, but he did love teasing her.

“Oh, you will. I can be very persuasive.”

Her deliberate omission of facts worried him, but her closeness, still so new, reduced the effects considerably. She reached up and brushed some hair out of his face. “I’ll see you tonight.”

\-------

Betriz was reading in a moment of idleness in her room when she heard a knock at the door. She opened it to see that it was Cazaril.

“Caz.” She hadn’t expected to see him for some hours yet.

“May I come in?” She opened the door wider to grant him entrance.

“Of course. This is a pleasant surprise. I thought you were going hunting.”

He grimaced. “I managed to talk to the lords that I needed to see before they left.” His expression brightened. “And that’s fortunate because I’m very curious as to what you expect me to do tonight.”

She laughed inwardly at the mental image of his face when she told him. “I suppose it’s only fair that you should know. Iselle contended that I would never be able to convince you to dance.”

“I think she was correct in that statement.” His face did match her imagination, but she held out hope that he could be persuaded otherwise.

“Oh, really? That’s a shame.”

“Well, perhaps I could dance a few steps. My reward would be your eternal gratitude after all.” His smile transformed into a grin that could have been called a smirk.

She shook her head. “It has to be an entire song.”

“But I’m afraid we’re at an impasse. An entire song is out of the question.” He leaned casually against the door. She couldn’t make out whether he was serious or teasing her.

“Maybe I should bring out one of my methods of persuasion.” She stepped closer and kissed him. After only a few days of formal courtship and betrothal, she still felt bold being so forward, but Caz never seemed to take offense. 

“If you continue with that much longer, I won’t be able to deny you anything.” Apparently, he wasn’t too worried about that because he cradled her face in his hands and pulled her in for another lengthy kiss. 

“That’s the general idea,” she whispered in his ear during a break between kisses.

As Caz was leaving awhile later, he smiled. “We’ll see.”

\--------------

If simply looking at Betriz was a marvel, kissing her was a gift from the gods. Her soft lips melded perfectly to his. He loved to feel the fabric of her dress under his hands. He still almost didn’t believe that he was allowed to be with her like this, especially after living so long without intimate contact of any kind.

It had only been a matter of hours since their last kiss, but he was greedy for the sensations. He was grateful that she had come to his office to fetch him to the banquet rather than meeting him at the Royina’s table. He almost didn’t hear her sigh, “Caz…”

“Mmm…yes?”

“We’re expected in the hall in a few minutes.” But she let him kiss her again. He dragged his mouth from hers reluctantly. They were both flushed and panting. “And I know you’re still just trying to convince me to let you out of the wager.”

“Is it working?”

She adopted a mock lofty air. “You must not understand women very well. You’re supposed to say that you never thought of such a scheme and that you only want to kiss me for its own sake.”

“You have my deepest apologies, my lady.” He swept her an exaggerated courtly bow. “But your affections have clouded my wits.” He just caught sight of her smile and emerging dimples before she leaned in to kiss him again.

Eventually, they convinced themselves of the need to join the rest of the court at dinner, but they walked very close together, arm in arm, until the last section of corridor before the ballroom.

\------------------

Betriz was resting for a moment between dances. She listened as the musicians started a slower song than the previous one. It was the third feast in so many days. Recently, the days had been spent in various tense negotiations as Iselle and Bergon consolidated support of their rule among the nobles. The nights were spent in celebration of the new royina. However, the festivities were kept relatively subdued because the court was still officially in mourning for Roya Orico. 

Just then the dancers shifted and she saw Cazaril in conversation with a young man. He was dy Rinal’s younger brother, who had been pursuing the new chancellor for a post since he arrived at the Zangre. Caz was obviously edging away and trying to escape him tactfully, but with little effect. She inwardly crowed in triumph; he would be begging her to dance soon.

Caz looked over his supplicant’s shoulder and his gaze found hers. He looked at her imploringly. She couldn’t resist his silent appeal, or the thought of winning her bet. 

As she moved toward the corner of the room where they stood, she formulated her request. “My lord dy Rinal, I was wondering if I might borrow the chancellor for a minute.”

Dy Rinal bowed politely. “Of course, Lady Betriz.” He turned to Caz again. “May I attend upon you tomorrow, Chancellor?”

She felt that he was holding back a sigh. “Yes; come to my office in the morning.” He went away looking triumphant.

“Are you finally going to give him a post?”

“I suppose; I think he would make a competent clerk. He is, at least, persistent.”

They stood at the edge of the dance floor, and she saw her opportunity. “I would ask you to dance, Cazaril, but you’ve made it very clear that you do not wish to, ever.” 

“I might make an exception.” She beamed before he added pointedly, “Once.” 

A new song was just beginning, and Cazaril swept her into the crowd. Neither of them knew all the carefully measured steps, but they managed to keep in time to the music. “Thank you for rescuing me, Betriz. I think I would have gone mad if I had to listen to one more moment of his prattling.”

“You’re doing me a favor as well.”

“I suppose I am, but it’s no great hardship.”

Hardship or not, Cazaril proved lucky because the song was a short one. The partners bowed to each other, and the musicians struck up a much livelier piece. She looked over to where Iselle and Bergon were still ensconced among various nobles and mouthed, “I win.” Iselle restrained herself because of the company, but Betriz had no doubt that she would be poking her tongue out if she were surrounded only by friends.

Meanwhile, Cazaril had kept hold of her arm and she realized that they were drifting toward a courtyard adjacent to the main hall. Once outside, they sat on a bench that was partially hidden by shrubbery. They had hardly been alone since they’d become betrothed, except today. She could accustom herself to the new state of affairs, though.

“Why did you bring me out here?”

“I’m afraid I had rather devious intentions.” He leant in and pressed his lips to hers. She was quite sure that she would never tire of the feeling. Several minutes later they decided it would be best to rejoin the other dancers. 

The day was over, and Betriz knew that there would be much work and separation in the days ahead. However, she was content in the knowledge that she and Caz would be able to make time for many more such interludes.


	10. Invasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lead up to the Lady Pig incident; contains sexual harassment/assault.

As I walked toward my bedchamber, I felt someone behind me. I turned and was face to face with Lord Dondo. He had the sleek and satisfied look of a well-fed palace cat. He had also obviously had more than a few glasses of wine.

“Good evening, Lady Betriz.”

I was determined not to show my agitation. This was not the first time he had accosted me in a dark corridor. “Lord Dondo.” I commended myself on my curtsy and the seeming politeness of my tone.

“You look particularly fetching tonight. But, of course, you are one of the loveliest ladies at court.” I gave another slight curtsy because I didn’t trust my voice. I knew from stories around the Zangre that he said the same thing to every woman that he wanted in his bed.

I barely suppressed a shudder. That certainly did not bear thinking about.

He continued, “I was most gratified that we were able to dance together tonight.” 

I took a few small steps away from him. “It was my pleasure, Lord Dondo.” 

I immediately rued my choice of words. His smirk widened and he was positively leering at me.

“I could show you pleasure you’ve never experienced before.”

It took me a few moments before I could choke out any words. “I’m flattered, but I am a true maiden of the Daughter.” The words tasted like bile in my mouth, but Caz had impressed on us that we were not to provoke either of the dy Jironals if we could possibly help it. I had only begun to see for myself that Dondo was not to be trifled with. I wished I could tell him what I really thought of his words, but I knew it would only create more difficulties than the fleeting satisfaction would be worth.

He looked most displeased; few people denied him anything. He ran his eyes over me appraisingly several times before snapping, “Fine. Another night.” He bowed and I returned a curtsey before walking away as quickly as I could without revealing how eager I was to flee from him.

I decided not to tell Iselle about this little incident. Nothing had come of it, after all. 

\-----------------------------

Days passed. Dondo grew bolder. His pursuits gradually intensified. He flirted with me openly, if his insinuations could even be called that, not only in odd hallways at night. He took every opportunity to touch my shoulder or kiss my hand in a mockery of gallantry.

One night there was another formal ball. I tried to maintain my distance from him. I made sure I was never without a partner for the next piece by the end of the previous dance. However, Dondo eventually found me alone just as a song was beginning. I couldn’t very well refuse to dance with him, so I braced myself for his stench and his increasingly vile innuendo.

He wasn’t terribly drunk yet, but the clarity of his expression made him seem more menacing. He held me closer than the dance required and leaned in to whisper, “I grow tired of our game.”

“There is no game, Lord Dondo.”

“I beg to differ. You’ve been denying me at every turn. But you still smile prettily at me…” That was a generous description if ever I heard one. It was more like my refraining from glaring at him in public.

“I’m sorry to annoy you, but I do have my modesty.” I wished for the thousandth time that he was only a horse groom who had made some impertinent remark. 

The set of his mouth suddenly turned particularly nasty. “You grew up in the country. I imagine you let the stable boys put their hands all over you.” As we neared the more crowded part of the dance floor, he adopted a mask of courtly politeness and lowered his voice even further. “But that’s all right. I’ll have you one way or another.” 

It was all I could do to stop myself from slapping him. He dug his fingers that rested on my waist into my side.

When the song ended, I escaped him. An hour later I left with Iselle. She had just turned into her chambers, and I continued walking to mine. Suddenly, a figure moved out of the shadows, gripped my arm, and clasped his other hand roughly over my mouth. Two of his bravos were stationed several feet away.

He had me pressed against a wall, his hot, reeking breath in my face, and I was beginning to panic. Only the laughter of a group of revelers coming down the hall saved me from having to take last-resort evasive measures.

After that incident I went to Iselle’s chambers. I had told her about some of Dondo’s unwanted attention. She was in full accord with my plan to humiliate him. The only question was how to do it. 

Eventually, we settled on a scheme that would make him regret his advances and reduce Teidez’s fawning admiration a bit. We just had to wait for the perfect night.

\--------------------

Iselle told dy Sanda that he might want to bring Teidez outside my chamber at the date and time that we had chosen. We pointedly opted not to include Cazaril. I could just see his frown and eyebrows drawn together as he enumerated the valid reasons against the plan. Fortunately, we ran into Lord dy Rinal, one of his friends, and his lady companion when the plot was about to be executed; we needed a few more witnesses.

We hid around the corner as we watched Dondo lumber toward his destination. We crept nearer when he entered the room. There was a breathless moment before a squeal came from the room and a lower-pitched shout joined it. 

Cazaril soon came running, and the look on his face almost made me regret this. But then I remembered Dondo’s body trapping mine. I was sorry no longer.

He came out and everyone was laughing merrily. I joined in, but mirth was not my chief emotion. Although the pig running between his legs was one of the most amusing sights I had ever experienced. Dy Rinal was laughing the most uproariously of all, and I knew Dondo’s failed tryst would be the talk of the Zangre by morning. He and his lady left, still chuckling and congratulating us.

Cazaril looked at the two of us seriously. “Royesse, that was not wise.”

Iselle jutted out her chin and answered him steadily. She finished, “At least this may teach him the unwisdom of attempting to steal from my household.”

I dropped my eyes from his searching gaze. “Very well. Just remember that Dondo is a powerful enemy.” We spoke for a few more minutes before we all returned to our chambers.

When I entered mine, I surveyed the damage. My bed was horribly rumpled, and Dondo’s scent lingered in the sheets. The thought of sleeping there turned my stomach. Instead, I went to Iselle’s rooms and we gossiped into the early morning as we used to do before we came to the capital and the world became so complicated.

Cazaril’s fear of Dondo’s retribution was contagious. In the subsequent days, I found myself constantly looking over my shoulder. But jokes at his expense soon receded, and my worry lessened with them.

It shouldn’t have.


	11. Inimical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cazaril and Dondo get off on the wrong foot.

“Ah, my Lord Cazaril. I was hoping to find you here. Please come join me in my tent. I have a gathering of a few select friends that I would love for you to be a part of.” Dondo strode into the tent as if he owned it.

Dondo dy Jironal had only been serving with the army for several months, and his tent was already legendary. Many younger lords would do anything to gain admittance to Dondo’s inner circle, looking ahead to future preferment once Dondo had taken his place as a high lord. The structure was twice the size of a standard-issue shelter and required four men to put it up and take it down every day. The heavy brocade fabric was useless at keeping out the rain and mud of the long marches. But Dondo insisted on having his subordinates clean it once a week.

Cazaril allowed himself a moment to collect himself before turning to the importunate nobleman with an apologetic smile. “Thank you for the offer, Lord Dondo, but, unfortunately, Lord dy Guarida tasked me with reviewing these maps before the morning exercises. I will have to stay up all night.”

“Nonsense! You know these lands better than the back of your hand already.” Better than Dondo, certainly, thought Cazaril. When he wasn’t hung over from the previous night’s festivities, he was talking about what he would do when they reached the next tavern. The war for him was nothing more than a matter of course, an expectation for a young lord just waiting to inherit. He was not without ability on the battlefield, but he only focused in the moment of crisis. Forethought meant nothing to him.

Cazaril first attributed Dondo’s excessive alcohol consumption to horror at his first battles. Cazaril himself had had similar impulses when he first rode out from Valenda and learned that war wasn’t all waving banners and glorious victories. But he soon realized that Dondo seemed to care nothing for either the enemies he had slain or the comrades that he had lost. He’d already replaced two intimate followers without apparent acknowledgment of the changes. 

“I’m actually looking at the Archipelago. We’ve had rumors of increased dissent among the princes, and we want to know if any could be persuaded to remain outside our present conflict. We have reason to believe that some may want to be rid of Mad Prince Olus as much as we would.”

“That is something for the light of day. The night is for making merry. Come.” The façade of joviality was fading. Dondo was used to getting his way, and he did not appreciate even casual defiance.

“Perhaps another night.” When the Roknari worship the Bastard. He pointedly returned to his maps, hoping to save himself from offending Dondo further by mischosen words. 

“Have I nothing to tempt even the most high and dutiful Cazaril?” Cazaril perforce turned around once again; it would not do to turn his back deliberately on a scion of one of the most powerful houses in Chalion. “But of course, there are no women or wine in my tent.” He gave a mockery of wink and puffed out his chest as if the entire world rested in the palm of his hand. Cazaril had seen the women shuffle out of that tent on many a morning. Some looked merely tired; however, others appeared much the worse for wear. They often picked up forlorn children from their peers who looked out for them. Cazaril had begun to believe the stories of some of Dondo’s uglier perversions.

And the wine was just as freely available. Only the finest vintages suited Dondo. Ignoring the strict policy against drunkenness, he took to passing it out to anyone who would take over one of his chores or perform some illicit errand. Those commanders whom he could not bribe into turning a blind eye to his malfeasance he avoided. 

Cazaril tried to stay out of Dondo’s way as much as possible. But his gluttony, in all aspects of life, almost made Cazaril want to confront him. Many of the soldiers did not have wealthy patrons. He'd seen boys whose voices had barely broken fighting over spare crusts of bread. Dy Guarida worked hard to ensure that his troops were well supplied, but there was always some problem with the baggage trains or the food becoming moldy more quickly than one would expect. Roya Orico was no help, he thought, very secretly. Although dy Guarida’s soldiers were not fighting for Orico directly in this conflict, they were fighting for Chalion. And Orico did nothing.

The sweat was starting to stand out on Dondo’s brow as he waited for a response. Cazaril forced his back into a more relaxed posture in his camp chair. Dondo would not see him riled nor guess the extent of his dislike if he could help it. He smiled. “Did you hear dy Guarida’s announcement that we we’re going to stay over in the provincial capital during the Daughter’s festival next week? It will be nice to have a proper bed for a few nights.”

Dondo scowled. “The Son is my god. Daughter’s festivals are for peasants who have nothing better to do with their time. Give me a boar hunt or a masque any day.”

“I fear we will have to disagree about that.” That conversational gambit having failed, Cazaril was scrambling for another, one about time running away from one or something to that effect.

But Dondo clearly saw that he was making no progress with turning Cazaril into one of his lackeys. “Very well, Castillar. I’ll leave you to your maps and priggishness. Although I do beg you to consider your future.” With that cryptic remark, he departed behind the swish of tent fabric. 

Cazaril pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He waited several minutes before returning to his work. But he soon put Dondo out of his mind; Cazaril decided that if he did not antagonize his fellow soldier needlessly, then he would face no more trouble from him.


	12. Indignity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betriz, Iselle, and dy Sanda come to Caz's rescue.

Iselle, Betriz, and dy Sanda hurried along as fast as possible without attracting undue notice. Dy Sanda had requested to see them early in the morning, much to the suspicion of their ladies, but Nan had let them go. Now they were racing to Ias’s Tower to find out the truth about Cazaril’s supposed arrest.

They turned a corner and came face to face with Orico’s guards. It took some unladylike persuasion, but they finally pushed through. Iselle was just finishing her tirade when Betriz saw Cazaril’s back.

She’d heard his story of being in the galleys, and other horrors that he presented so matter-of-factly. But she hadn’t expected this. There didn’t appear to be one square inch of bare skin from the base of his neck to his lower back. She didn’t know how he maintained his straight military posture, or how he wasn’t trembling from the outrage of this humiliation. Iselle and others were still speaking, but she paid no attention. 

Cazaril finally asked to don his tunic again. As he fastened his shirt, he wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. She wanted to go up to him and tell him that she knew him, knew he could never do what the flogging scars indicated. 

And it appeared that he had left out some details of his story. When he told of the Roknari oar-master and his young Ibran benchmate, she felt her first thought slip out unbidden. She’d read between the lines of his tales and discovered how much he’d sacrificed for the men in his charge at Gotorget and knew first-hand what he was willing to do for her and Iselle every day, no matter that his sacrifices for them were far from a matter of life and death. But she hadn’t known that his forgetfulness of self extended so far.

However, she knew any defense of Caz on her part would be useless. Dy Jironal would say that he had already seduced her. He would question why she was so eager to defend him when her mistress was possibly in grave danger. And of course, her honor counted as nothing to the chancellor. There would be nothing that she could say to prove that she was not so easily suborned. Dy Jironal would claim her woman’s weakness in the face of infatuation and it would override all other evidence. Anything to defame Caz and oust him from his position so close to Iselle. 

Dy Jironal proved her right by making snide insinuations about her being a “temptation,” at which it took all her will to remain silent. However, he was thrown off balance, and he clearly didn’t know what to say to force them to leave. The makeshift trial continued. Orico vacillated with the onslaught of Iselle’s anger. 

When Orico finally summoned Umegat to fetch a sacred crow to act as the arbiter of justice, the room fell into a most awkward silence. Not for very long. First, Orico directed all in the room to his desired positions for them. As he regained his seat, dy Jironal started muttering a stream of commentary into the roya’s ear. Iselle sought to override him. Dy Sanda was shifting from foot to foot and making the floors creak. Only Cazaril was still and quiet in his dim end of the room. If Betriz had her way, she would go up to him and hold his hand, but that was impossible for the moment.

Umegat returned after what seemed a small eternity, and Orico made a show of commanding the proceedings. But he soon faltered again. She felt dy Jironal’s glare when she asked which man the bird should choose, the true or the false. Umegat answered smoothly and she wondered just how much he knew of what lay behind these convoluted proceedings.

The crow validated Cazaril as almost everyone in the room knew it must. She still felt relief seep through her. She would give her life to protect Iselle, but she had neither the resources nor the knowledge to do it properly. They both knew that they needed him as the world spun pell-mell around them and their enemies grew closer all the time.

She broke from her musings to study Caz for a moment. His face had not seemed to lighten at all. As they escorted him out of the chancellery office, he thanked them for their intervention, but his smile was forced and he wore the look that he did when deep in thought.

A new thought struck her like a bolt of lightning. Martou was known to bend to his brother’s will, for all his reputation as the true leader of Chalion. If her prank against Dondo had had anything to do with this… She voiced her worry. Cazaril instantly denied it, and the warmth of his eyes reassured her more than his simple words.

However, as he bowed her and Iselle into their chambers, she was left with a lingering sense of unease.


	13. Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cazaril and Betriz experience wedded bliss.

A tentative knock woke Cazaril from a doze. He hurriedly threw on his dressing gown. Surely, the royina would not have him disturbed on this morning of all mornings unless it were a matter of some urgency.

When he reached the door of the antechamber that adjoined the sleeping area, he cracked it open to see a young page. "Com-compliments of the royina and royse-consort, my lord Chancellor." He held out a tray with slightly trembling hands. The boy was obviously terrified, probably in part due to the greatly exaggerated rumors of his late miracles.

He accepted the tray and dismissed the boy with a request to send his gratitude to his masters. He trod back to the bed and set the gift on a nearby table. It appeared to be filled with all the rich delicacies that the Zangre kitchens could supply, miniature tarts filled with almond paste, chocolate covered fruits, sweet rolls of every description. He thought of sampling a few, but the greater temptation of Betriz's sleeping form drew him back between the sheets. She rolled into him as he settled himself and mumbled something indistinguishable but did not wake further.

He draped an arm over her, careful not to disturb her slumber. He reflected on the softness of her skin. Great odes could be written to that feature. Unfortunately, she had banned him—only half-jokingly—from writing any more poems about her body parts.

Anyway, he much preferred the way that he had paid tribute to her last night. The memories threatened to send him into a spell of delighted giggling, or weeping. However, he controlled himself. He didn't want to frighten his new bride after all. His recent happiness still felt so fragile that he dared not make one misstep for fear of losing…everything.

Eventually, Betriz did awake. She smiled at him almost shyly and stretched her limbs. "Was someone at the door earlier? Iselle doesn't need you today, does she?"

"No, she doesn't. But she and Bergon had a breakfast tray delivered." He brought it over and laid it on the bed between them. She admired the little tarts and chose an orange-colored one to taste first.

"Good. Else I would have had to have words with her about stealing my husband the morning after our wedding." She glanced at him coyly from under her lashes before resuming her examination of the tray. "Mmm. I'm famished." She proved her statement by selecting two more treats in quick succession. "Have you tried some of these? They're delicious." He took a fruit tart, and it was indeed tasty.

They ate happily for several more minutes when Betriz held up a particularly ripe berry and offered to pop it into his mouth. He held her hand where it lingered on his lips and licked the remaining juice from her fingers. She flushed, but she did not pull away. In fact, her features brightened and she glowed.

He reciprocated her gesture and fed her one of the almond paste tarts that she seemed to be favoring. When they kissed a minute later, sweetness lingered in their mouths. But it was nowhere near as sweet as having this woman with him. He tilted her head back so that he could kiss her more deeply. Soon, the sensations overwhelmed both of them. Somehow, the platter ended up on the floor; fortunately, there were only a few pieces left. But Cazaril and Betriz were occupied with each other and paid it no mind.


End file.
